


Tighter and Tighter

by More_night



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sensory Deprivation, am afraid this is my maximum filth setting, self-defeating attempt at d/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7162862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_night/pseuds/More_night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, he finds the stash that comprises Hannibal’s deluxe version of the common medical cabinet. The bottles are high-grade, all amber-colored glass with long, tiny necks. It has an Old World look. Will huffs, observes, wonders if Hannibal orders this stuff in plastic tubes on the internet and then transfers it in luxurious vials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tighter and Tighter

Before Will decides, a handful of other occurrences happen. The first strikes him the most.

They’re in the car Chiyoh found, the car that’d lead them to the pier, that will bring them to the edge of the ocean, where a boat awaits and it feels so natural Will feels like scrambling at the sky with his hands to hold the future closer, because all of this has already happened.

Chiyoh leaves them alone for a moment at the shore. They are at night. The only light comes from the dash of the car in shades of neon blue and red.

Hannibal reaches for a bottle of water and his side and his shoulder and neck have to lean against Will’s side, ribs, shoulder, because the car is small. His fingers clasp the bottle, the plastic cringes and Hannibal lets his forehead drag across Will’s cheek when he pulls back. He does that often now, tender but uncompromising, mild but definitive. Will doesn’t turn away and, when he blinks slowly in agreement, Hannibal kisses him.

When they part, Will’s hand is in Hannibal’s hair and Hannibal’s is under Will’s shirt.

Will knows that if he stabbed Hannibal now, Hannibal would only give a sigh that would sound like relief.

 

* * *

 

There are other things after that. The last of them takes place on the boat.

Most of the mending has been done, but now, they are both stuck with swollen flesh. They lie in bed and, when the painkillers are gentle on them and the fog ceases, they prepare their next dose.

Nearing evening, Hannibal reaches out for a bottle among the dozen on the bedside table. His fingers are weak. They miss.

Will curls into him and Hannibal stops grasping. His hand lands on Will’s chest and stays there, warm, feathery. Then it moves to the loose sweatpants and slips inside. Will is half-hard and becomes fully so by the time he reaches down too under Hannibal’s boxers.

They are less clumsy than he would have thought. At the end, he kisses Hannibal and keeps his mouth over his until he hears him moan within his skull, into his cheeks, up his nose, behind his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He makes his mind up when they talk about Hannibal’s house in Maine. He’s had it for years. When Will asks if he has other houses like this, Hannibal says yes. “Would you like the list?”

“Is this your way of telling me that what’s yours is mine?”

Hannibal returns to the pages of his book. There’s a satin bookmark that’s sewn in the biding and hangs between the pages. He smooths it with his thumb. “Sometimes, it seems that it is only yours and no longer mine.”

Will nods slowly.

Later, he finds the stash that comprises Hannibal’s deluxe version of the common medical cabinet. The bottles are high-grade, all amber-colored glass with long, tiny necks. It has an Old World look. Will huffs, observes, wonders if Hannibal orders this stuff in plastic tubes on the internet and then transfers it in luxurious vials.

It has everything. Medical and non-medical, legal and illegal. Will trails his fingers on the bottles, the clean, shining syringes, the cannulas and the IV drips, coiled like sleeping snakes. He drops his hand when he starts thinking how many different drugs has Hannibal used on him in the past.

In the maze of his brain, it’s amazing that some things are apart and some close. The thought of Hannibal using drugs on him is very close to the one of him using them on Hannibal. The words come to his mouth and he almost speaks them out loud. Just to see what would happen.

He could stop it, but he can’t find any reason to. Along with the thought of seeing what would happen comes the one, thrilling, like air that turns to fire, that he can find out. What would happen.

 

* * *

 

During dinner that evening, Will is particularly quiet. Sometimes, Hannibal catches him studying him intently. He doesn’t need to ask to know that there is something on Will’s mind, but cannot resolve to ask him.

Will is evasive but not unamused. It reminds Hannibal of therapy and, from the way Will’s attitude sometimes glides toward abrasive, it reminds him of it too. They push forth and back.

They are about to move to dessert when he realizes that Will won’t tell him at all, nor be brought to reveal it through any conversational framework. There is something more than stubborn about him, something secretive, not unfriendly, but that he keeps out of sight insistently.

Hannibal places his fork and knife in his plate, at an angle that has him recall 7:27 PM, Baltimore, Will Graham. The memory is particularly vivid. He brushes his fingertips on the table’s glossy surface because they feel wet with the sweat collected from Will’s forehead on that night nearly five years ago. He is surprised to find the skin dry. The thought bubbles, indifferent, and is swallowed back in. “I give up,” he tells Will. “What is it?”

In his chair, Will stiffens lightly, his face both captivated and austere, not unlike what it would look like when he analyzed a crime scene to have the crime channeled through him like an ancient god. “PCP.”

Hannibal cocks his head and frowns minutely.

“Phenylcyclohexil-piperidine,” Will repeats.

Hannibal blinks a few times. He has been feeling the effects of the drug for some time, he realizes, but he could not quite differentiate it from the gradually intensifying sense of self he was experiencing. “In the wine,” he understands.

Will nods. Hannibal makes a mental note that Will’s knowledge of wine has improved. He had chosen one with a deep fruity aroma that complemented and hid the taste of the drug solution.

“How do you feel?” Will says, finishing his own glass of wine.

Hannibal finds it harder to describe than he would have thought. “An intensified perception of most of my body, although touch seems to be fading.”

“It’ll keep fading.”

“A light dosage, as my consciousness isn’t particularly altered.”

“I didn’t want you high.” Will gets up.

“How did you want me?”

Will does not answer right away. “I did think we’d make it through dessert. I didn’t mean to interrupt the meal.”

Hannibal shakes his head, thinks of the _panna cotta_ and its citrus marmelade. It is hard to reach even the idea of the small cooling pots in the refrigerator, as if his brain were mud. Dense, wet and peaceful. “It will not spoil,” he says, finally. “You didn’t answer me. Do you have specific plans?”

“They’re sketchy. But I’ll manage,” Will says. “I’ll draw you a bath.”

“Sensory deprivation,” Hannibal understands.

“Can you get up?”

Hannibal nods and does. Once he stands, he realizes he needs to contract the muscles of his thighs only to remain upright, because his feet feel like they will slip on the ground, as if all friction were gone. They have reached the limit of entropy. The reign of thermodynamics is over and all things are separating, to such an extent that there is barely one of them whole. And so he doesn’t walk. He flies.

 

* * *

 

Will helps him take off his clothes while Hannibal sits against the sink. The sense of touch is completely evacuated from his perception by the time the tub has filled. When Hannibal sinks in, the water is not wet, nor slippery. He is not sure if he could specify if it’s a liquid or not. It feels like pressure and a great calm, pressuring in from outside, threatening to veer into emptiness at any moment.

He doesn’t know exactly how long he is there. He tries to attach his mind to Will, but it is difficult to get out of himself and into the world.

Will stays with him. He has taken his sweater off. The air in the bathroom must be damp and heavy. Will’s sitting on the floor by the tub, his arms crossed on the edge.

“Why PCP?”

“When I was a cop and I couldn’t shoot someone and should have, it was in a lab where they synthesized it,” Will says. “Then I remembered that it acted as an NMDA receptor antagonist.”

“Recreating your encephalitis?” Hannibal asks, eyes on the ceiling as it begins to twist, edging slightly to the left.

Will doesn’t answer, or maybe he has and Hannibal didn’t ear it. “How do you feel?”

“Like you could kill me at any moment, on a whim,” he says. His hand is lifted in the air and it puzzles him at first, before he realizes Will is holding it out of the water. Then he lets it go and all Hannibal feels is the slight pressure of the landing, the waves rising as they part to accommodate his limb.

“You’re telling me what you think I want to hear.”

“Isn’t it the point you wanted to make – your control over me, your potency?”

“I asserted that before.” Will stands up now, and the room grow more obscure. “What if I just wanted to hurt you?”

“Inflicting hurt is personal. If there was nothing else for me in you, than hurt, I would take that too,” Hannibal says, focusing on the light coming from the window, where it meets the one coming from the ceiling lamp. He could almost separate the two clear shines with his hands.  

“Also you don’t believe me.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “On the contrary. I must hope I’m close enough to your heart for you to want to hurt me, Will.”

Will is moving to the linen cupboard and stops when he hears him. “What if there is only softness and warmth in these crude regions around my heart?” he asks. Hannibal resents the drug, because he cannot exactly find words to describe what he sees on Will’s face, nor capture the image to deposit it safely away and contemplate later. It feels like the sky tumbling down over him.

He tries to speak and finds it more difficult now. He tests the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “My apologies. I don’t feel my tongue. I must slur.”

Unfolding a large white towel, Will throws it over his shoulder. He holds his arms out to help Hannibal out of the clawfoot bathtub. “Your accent’s thicker. It’s fine,” he says quietly.

Hannibal clings to Will to get out of the tub. One foot, then the next. The water on the tiles makes for dangerous ground and Hannibal’s fingers dig in Will’s arm, stronger and stronger and he doesn’t feel them bruising the flesh.

Will doesn’t hiss in pain, only lets Hannibal steady himself, then wraps the towel around his shoulders. “Answer me. How do you feel?”

Closing his eyes, opening them again, Hannibal sees Will pressing the towel to his skin but doesn’t feel the touch. “A bit of synesthesia, visual and auditive. The expected feeling of detachment. The absence of touch is…” Hannibal licks his lips, feels nothing. “Awkward,” he says. “I feel lost and safe.”

The look Will gives him seems very careful. Hannibal understands that Will is looking at his pupils, much like he had himself done in the past. “Is that good?” Will asks.

They are frozen in time and the walls darken around them, they become the dimly lit prison with the even steps of Will leaving him for the few hours Hannibal had believed to be forever. Suddenly he had had another conception of eternity. It returns to him now like the heaviest blow. “Good? No.”

Pausing minutely from rubbing Hannibal’s arms to dry them off, Will peers up. For a moment, none of them speaks.

Then Will swallows and resumes drying. “Come with me,” he says.

 

* * *

 

He takes Hannibal to the bedroom and sits him on the bed, naked, notices his hand spreading on the sheets, gripping then fisting, not feeling the fabric on his skin. Will rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. He observes Hannibal whose eyes seem like the only alive part of him, they dart everywhere, coming back to Will as if magnetized. “Taste, smell? How are they?”

He watches Hannibal bite the inside of his lip to taste blood. “Taste is little altered,” he says. Then he tilts his head back, eyes closed. “Smell is… dimmer than usual.”

Will often experiences transcendence in his life, the feeling that he leaves his body and his mind, not to enter someone else’s, but just to step over the limit that makes them separate beings. He feels it now. It has rarely been so powerful. It’s not exciting, he discovers, to diminish Hannibal. It’s exciting to see what he saw of Will, to know how far he could go, to see not only how far would his body take him, but also his mind. This thrill leaves him warm, more certain of his love than before, and convinced that when Hannibal opens his eyes again, they’ll be Will’s own, staring back.

On Hannibal’s forearms and thighs, goosebumps have formed. He’s sustained half an erection since a moment now. Will realizes he doesn’t know the other signs of arousal in Hannibal. Does his breathing quicken? Does his eyes widen? Does he touch more, lick his lips?

He opens his eyes again and finds Will staring at him from above, besieging, and he feels his emotions begin to wilt into each other, unbound and vast. “I feel nothing now,” he says, finally. “My balance won’t be optimal.” He spreads his palm wide over his own thigh, nothing touching void. “No tactility at all. As if I were a corpse.”

“You’re not dead, Hannibal. You’re with me,” Will says. He crouches before him by the bed. “You still have sight.”

“Mercifully,” Hannibal agrees, in a breath, and his eyes feasts on Will’s skin. He reaches out and frame his face with his hands, takes his thumbs to his lips, then back to his cheeks. He knows that eventually the coarse facial hair will irritate his skin, but he is strangely determined to continue until it does, until pain frees him from Will’s prison. And then he remembers that Will’s chosen prison is a little like Will himself and he shudders, as if to escape was wrong.

Will turns his face in Hannibal’s hold and Hannibal sees him kiss the center of his palm. “Nothing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Hannibal whispers.

Mindful not to break eye contact, Will noses at Hannibal’s hand until he brings on of his fingers to his mouth and sucks it between his lips.

It is the strangest thing, Hannibal wonders, as his mouth fall open, that only subtracting touch drowns him in sight. He takes everything in: the subtle hollow in Will’s cheeks, barely visible in the dim lamp light, the white of his eyes around the blue irises. His fingers reaching Will’s nape. He pictures breaking the neck, he has often done, and he wouldn’t know when to stop. His hands would just crush through skin until everything was mush and blood.

When Will lets his finger out of his mouth, it shines with saliva. Hannibal’s erection is now full, standing between them like a dare.

Will takes Hannibal’s hand, wet finger and all, and slowly wraps it around his shaft. Hannibal looks at him all the while, exhales rasp and short. After the first stroke, Hannibal stops staring at himself and blinks. Will stills his hand between his own. “How does it feel?” he asks.

Focusing on the black pit that has formed in his chest, Hannibal feels the words forming before he can think, like he has many times before, but only with Will. “Like prison.”

The younger man’s eyes widen slightly and Hannibal sees the realization forming, that this was what he wanted all along. It starts as a flush in his neck and becomes especially harsh around the eyes. Will breaks away to look at Hannibal’s cock, hard, demanding, between their joined hands. He strokes it again and it jerks quietly. Hannibal’s arm is soft and boneless, his fingers would be only approximate around himself if not for Will. He doesn’t stop watching. “A prison with a view of the outside.”

Will strokes more rhythmically now and Hannibal moans. “A camera obscura. A box, with a pinhole and an inverted image of reality, cruel in its similitude.”

Hips stuttering into the touch Will leads, Hannibal feels only the pleasure of inside. The rest is an image, thinner and farther away than a memory, something that is not quite his. The motions of Will’s hand slow down, his fingers visibly tighten, but Hannibal only notices the change in the blood flow through the one in the color of the glans.

The younger man lets him go and steps away, only to remove his clothes. When he kneels between Hannibal’s legs, his erection bumps against his thigh and Hannibal still doesn’t sense a sliver of touch, not a whisper of contact. “Lie back,” Will says.

Hannibal shakes his head curtly, once. “I will watch you,” he says. His fingers go to Will’s shoulders, his neck, his chest. He has never before caressed it so freely. Now he roams the skin, desperate for the smallest flicker of sensation and none comes.

Leaning toward him, Will kisses his abdomen and ribs, before sliding his arms around his waist in a hug that brings his cheek against his belly. From there, Will licks the upper side of his cock. Hannibal’s eyes follow his lips and watch their shape alter as they form a circle around the tip, then close over the shaft and draw back, like the tide. Sometimes, he thinks he feels some vague warmth, but he knows truly, that there is nothing else than his eyes constructing dreams for his brain.

Will wraps his hand around the base, while sucking the rest. Hannibal finds out that his orgasm starts building, not from the gut and the belly, but from a point between his shoulder blades. As if it sought to hang him up in the air, like so many victims he had suspended.

The movements are slow, and the tongue slurping around him, Hannibal only hears.

“I will not be able,” he breathes, words in a string of wind. “To tell you when I will ejaculate.”

His eyes haven’t left Will’s face and meet his eyes when they look up at him. Will lets him go from his mouth suddenly and pushes him back on the bed, mouth preying on his, feral and blunt. Hannibal listens to the sound of their kiss, closes his eyes and comes with a gasp between them.

 

* * *

 

“I’m ill-equipped for this,” Will says, wrapping the used wet washcloth in the damp towel from earlier.

On his back on the bed, Hannibal now runs his fingers over his own arms in a continuous brush of skin and skin. There is now a persistent dizziness at the back of his head and a quiet tingling all over him. “The enjoyment of control over others implies a certain deal of objectification of them. Which can be difficult for you,” he concedes.

Will comes to lie beside him, taking the sheets over them both. “Did you objectify me?”

“You resisted objectification, Will,” Hannibal says.

There is nothing to say apparently, as Hannibal finds Will only looking at him. “Anything you need?” Will asks, after a while.

“No. The effects are receding.”

“Leaving prison again?”

Hannibal smiles. Instead of the wake of sex, he only feels a desire for snugness. “We leave prison in a single motion. This is a process that fades and pales, a continually changing prison.”

“Anything you want?”

Closing his eyes seems natural, since they begin to hurt, perhaps dry at this point. “Your arms around me,” he says.

Will takes his fingers to Hannibal’s cheeks and they come away wet. He shows him the starry luster, then smiles and moves closer to him, pushing him to lie on his left side. His erection is caught between them, nestled against Hannibal’s lower back. He wraps his right arm over the other man’s middle and the left over the crook of his shoulder and neck.

“Tighter,” Hannibal asks.

Will pulls his arms tighter.

“Tighter.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, the sheets smell of his sweat. He can’t recall perspiring, but the scent lingers, even if only in the abstraction of a memory. Will is still holding him. The arm wrapped above his wound creates a dull pain in his ribs.

Will simultaneously stiffens against his back and loosens his hold as he wakes.

The tall trees on the west side of the house shake with the onshore wind. Hannibal breathes out slowly as Will’s lips touch the back of his neck and it’s as if he were crushed into ground and made into dust.

The tip of Will’s erection touches him somewhere above the right buttock. He is himself extremely aroused. It pulsates from his heels to his stomach.

“Are you in the mood for something more elaborate?” Will asks. “If more traditional.”

“By all means.”

When Will moves and creates a gap between them, Hannibal holds firmly on his wrist. As the younger man takes the lubricant tube from the bedside table, Hannibal doesn’t let go. Will sits in the bed as best he can, given the leash, and plants a feet in the mattress, raising a knee. He pours lubricant on the fingers of the hand Hannibal is gripping. “I’ll need both my hands,” Will says, pointing at his open legs.

Hannibal’s hold soften. “I was actually thinking of it the other way around,” he says. With his grasp on Will, he brings the lube-covered fingers to Will’s cock and wraps them around it, beginning to stroke slowly, entranced by the touch. It burns. The skin of his fingers feels reborn, as if it had been immersed in lifeless liquid forever before.

“Are you sure?” Will asks.

“Desire is never certainty,” Hannibal replies.

Once Will’s erection is slick, it shines in the room’s pallid darkness. Will pours more lube on his fingers and Hannibal guides them between his legs. He presses close to Hannibal, chest against back, after making sure there is no strain on his wound. His hand is splayed over the other man’s neck and throat. He feels the intake of breath as he slips a finger inside.

“How much did you like it?” Hannibal asks him. “Doing a bad thing to a bad person.”

Will closes his eyes, remembers being unable to differentiate despair and astonishment in Hannibal’s eyes. “I wonder,” he starts, drawing circles inside with his finger, “if it was a bad thing, or if you’re a bad person.”

“Is righteousness not significantly arousing? It suspends you high above. Closer to the stars than God himself.”

There’s no clear answer.

Hannibal brings his hand around the base of Will’s skull and they hold each other as Will’s wrist keeps moving.

Will adds a finger and Hannibal’s lets out a sharper breath. “I’m hurting you,” Will says, withdrawing.

Hannibal’s eyes are shining. “Always,” he whispers. “And never enough.” He presses Will’s hand back into himself.

Arousal, Will knows, pounds into them both. He’s already almost there when he slips his fingers out. Hannibal has his palm wrapped around his cock tightly, motionless, holding back with all he has, taut and flushed.

He lodges his face into the side of Hannibal’s neck, secures him on his left side, knees pulled up. Then, he cants his hips and slides in smoothly.

Because the fresh, newly closed scar of Hannibal’s wound soon begins to bloom with red, Will moves softly, long, methodical. It doesn’t take long for either of them.

“Can I come inside you?” Will pants, at the end.

As an answer, Hannibal turns enough to kiss him, lips smearing against his. “Do you believe you are any less deep inside of me than you think I am inside of you?”

Will sees dark and white mixed together and comes with his mouth open on Hannibal’s shoulder. After a few thrusts finish exhausting him, he pulls out and reaches around for Hannibal’s erection. He finds it covered in fluid, warm, but cooling.

His head buried in the pillow, Hannibal shifts to rest closer. “A request, if I may.” Will nods, curls of hair moving against the other man’s ear. “The next time we do this, you will crush my body in the mattress with yours.”

 


End file.
